


Red and White

by Zeiphyx



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Caring Aragorn, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Legolas, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Self-Harm, Worried Aragorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeiphyx/pseuds/Zeiphyx
Summary: When tragedy strikes, a young elven warrior must deal with its aftermath. Haunted by grief and guilt, Legolas turns his pain on himself. Will Aragorn be able to save his friend from his own mind, or is the prince too far gone? Trigger warnings for graphic (non-sexual) violence, self-harm, panic attacks, and PTSD experiences.





	1. Blood on the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This story takes place in the year 2954 of the Third Age of Middle Earth - 12 years after the events of The Hobbit, and 64 years before those of Lord of the Rings. While most fans of Tolkien's legendarium seem to accept that Legolas is around 3000 or so years old (probably close in age to Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen), canonically his age or birthday was never given. In this story, I have set his birth year as T.A. 2834, which would make Legolas 120 years old at the time of the events that take place - 20 years after his coming of age (Aragorn, having been born in T.A 2931, would be 23 at the time of this story). I needed Legolas to be younger and thus less experienced than what most fans put him at in order for his actions in this story to be believable. 
> 
> This is, at its core, a tale of trauma and grief entwined with friendship, and will be my first M-rated story. Please be warned that this story contains possible triggers for self-harm, panic attacks, and PTSD experiences, as well as graphic depictions of (non-sexual) violence in the first chapter. Take care of yourself and don't force yourself to read scenes that may trigger you - I will try to provide warnings at the start of relevant chapters and provide summaries at the end for those who would prefer to skip such scenes. While Aragorn isn't in this chapter, don't worry - this is still an Aragorn and Legolas fic!

Twigs snapped underfoot and the horses’ breaths rose into the crisp wintery air in steaming plumes as the small group of elves emerged from the treeline. The leader of the party, a tall, chestnut-haired Silvan, halted his mount and held up a hand to indicate to the others that they should follow suit. He took a moment to glance about their surroundings before swinging easily down from the saddle, his boots crunching over the fine layer of snow that had settled over this part of the Greenwood.

“We will make camp here this night.” At his words, a palpable wave of relief rippled through the others; shoulders visibly relaxed while tired smiles were shared. “Traston and Radriel, you will care for the horses. Caladwen, fetch water and get a fire going. Prince Legolas, take Elenath with you and search for game, but do not stray far, and return by dusk. I will keep watch – you all know the signal in the event of trouble. That is all – you are dismissed.”

“Yes, commander Radhron.” A chorus of assent rang out from the little company, and at once the snowy clearing became a buzz of activity as each elf fell into his or her assigned role. Radhron handed over the reins of his bay mare to a golden-haired elleth, giving her a curt nod before turning towards a large oak tree at the centre of the glade.

“Thank you, Radriel.”

“Legolas!” The young Prince of Greenwood looked up at the jovial voice, just in time to catch an empty sack as it sailed towards his face. The raven-haired elf who had thrown it strolled leisurely to meet him, a playful grin lighting his features.

“Really, Nath?” Legolas quirked an eyebrow. “I shall remember this attempt on my life, and you, oh traitorous Silvan, shall pay.” Unable to contain his laughter any longer, Legolas chuckled as he rolled up the sack and tucked it into his pack. “Radhron seems to have it in for us this night, I fear. I was so hoping to sit down for a moment or two, but – ” The blond checked quickly over his shoulder to ensure that the commander was out of earshot before he continued, his tone a mockery of the older elf’s. “ _Prince Legolas, fetch my supper, for I wish to climb a tree!_ ” At this, both young warriors burst into fits of giggles before Elenath elbowed the prince in the ribs, a look of mock-seriousness on his face.

“Perhaps you should have considered the implications of showing off with your bow this afternoon, then. The _real_ victim of this situation is clearly me.” Elenath’s lips twitched as he tried to keep from laughing again.

“But of course.” Legolas rolled his eyes and gave the other elf a sharp shove that nearly sent him sprawling into a nearby snowdrift. “Come on, lazy Silvan. We have a hungry Radhron – I mean, a hungry _platoon_ to feed!” Still stifling their laughter, Legolas and Elenath turned back to the forest. Both friends at once became sombre as they left the safety of their companions behind, their hands falling automatically to rest on their weapons.

Dusk was falling over the Greenwood as the two hunters returned triumphant. Elenath carried the sack, full to the brim, while Legolas bore a brace of rabbits. Today’s patrol may have been gruelling, but at least tonight they would all bed down on full stomachs – that alone lifted the tired hunters’ spirits. An elleth with flaming red hair ran forward and began to eagerly inspect their takings, her grey eyes alighting as she peered into the sack.

“Game hens and potatoes! And Prince Legolas has brought rabbits!” Caladwen twirled with delight before taking the proffered items. “I will make us a fine roast indeed – no elf shall go hungry this night.” She turned, but not before batting her eyelashes at Elenath, whose eyes settled on the elf-maiden’s rear as she skipped away to prepare their meal.

“Anything to report?” Legolas had been about to send his friend into the nearest snowdrift for real this time when the sound of their captain’s voice startled both elves into attention.

“Nothing, Commander Radhron.” Legolas shook his head.

“Greenwood is quiet,” Elenath agreed.

“Good; as it should be.” The chestnut commander seemed pleased. He nodded towards Caladwen’s retreating figure. “Legolas and Elenath, you two have done well tonight. You may rest and take some time for yourselves whilst Caladwen cooks. Elenath, do not forget to properly clean your blade – the spider blood will corrode the metal otherwise.” Radhron clasped Elenath’s shoulder and nodded to Legolas before he strode off to the campfire, where he proceeded to help Caladwen prepare the game. Legolas and Elenath had already gutted and cleaned their catches, but the hens would need plucking and the rabbits had to be skinned before they could be spitted over the fire.

The elves made their way to the centre of the clearing, where Traston and Radriel sat under the sparse shelter of the oak. Having finished tending to the horses, the pair were taking advantage of the vestiges of daylight to care for their weapons. Radriel’s twin daggers lay in her lap whilst she oiled her bowstring, and Traston’s long silver hair was reflected in his sword as the ellon polished its mirrorlike surface. The elves were talking quietly as they worked, but they looked up and greeted the newcomers with smiles.

“Mind if we join you?” Elenath flashed his most charming grin and was rewarded when the seated elves moved up to allow the hunters to sit gratefully beside them. As they shrugged off their packs, Elenath groaned dramatically and made a show of stretching his tired and aching muscles. This drew a smirk from Legolas as he unsheathed one of his white knives, pulling oil and a whetstone from his pack ere he started to work on the weapon.

It had been a long few days: the small reconnaissance party had patrolled the shores of the Enchanted River down to the foothills of the Forest Mountains and had then cut a path back towards the elven stronghold for their return. Game had been scarce, and every day filled with the constant threat of danger lurking beyond the nearest tree. Long days had blurred into even longer nights in the dim light of the forest, and tempers were frayed while bodies and minds had grown tired. Overall though, their patrol had been relatively uneventful: other than a few spiders, Greenwood had been quiet. Legolas suspected that Radhron had known that this would be the case and that this was the reason for the commander’s choice of route for his young charges. The older, veteran warriors typically ventured much further South and could easily be gone for weeks at a time, always returning with thrilling stories of battle that enthralled their younger counterparts. Any day now, Legolas knew, the elves in his platoon would be called upon to serve in their ranks – a prospect that filled the prince with excitement. Over the last 120 years, Legolas had grown from an elfling into a strong and capable warrior and tactician, excelling at ranged and close combat alike, and ready to take up his duty to the realm. To protect the Greenwood and her people; to fight back against the darkness that sought to claim the forest. Legolas smiled and hummed lightly to himself as he worked – he was ready.

“Las.” The prince’s thoughts were interrupted as Elenath nudged him.

“Work my shoulders for me?”

“Fine, if it will make you stop your whining.” Legolas laughed and sheathed his blade, rubbing his hands on his leggings to clean them. “Come here. But on one condition – once I have finished, you will do my neck.” Legolas brushed away his friend’s glossy black hair and laid his hands on Elenath’s shoulders, his fingers seeking out and massaging away the tension there. The Silvan sighed in pleasure and closed his eyes as he leaned into the touch, his pain and stiffness melting away under the prince’s nimble fingers. Tomorrow, they would be back at the palace – safe, warm, and well-fed. Sleeping in their own quarters, upon soft mattresses. Elenath was certain that he was not the only one craving a hot bath and a full goblet of spiced wine, either. And perhaps, Illuvatar willing, Caladwen would be among that number. Elenath’s gaze drifted fondly to the elleth as she stoked the fire, his blue orbs caressing her lithe figure. She seemed to notice the stare of her admirer, for the redhead looked up from her cooking to fix Elenath with the most enchanting smile he had ever seen. Her alluring grey eyes locked with his for a few moments before she resumed her work, though the smile lingered on her features.

“Enough staring, you lovestruck fool.” The dreamy look on the young Silvan’s face was replaced with mirth as Legolas jokingly swatted the back of his head and moved to sit in front of his friend, pulling his flaxen gold hair over his shoulder to bare the skin of his neck to the other’s hands. “My turn now.” As he relaxed into Elenath’s soothing touch, Legolas took up his bow, inspecting its flawlessly polished surface in the fading light. Radriel started to sing softly, and soon the other three elves had raised their voices in gentle harmony. Their bright song filled the clearing with warmth and comfort, holding at bay all that which prowled unseen in the shadows.

And thus the evening passed in pleasant song and chatter. As the hour grew later, bedrolls were unfurled and the ashes of the fire extinguished. The air was frosty with winter’s chill, and even the young elves huddled close together on the ground for warmth and protection from the elements while Radhron left the camp to scout the area before taking first watch. Legolas had volunteered to take second watch and so he wasted no time in wedging himself between Elenath and Caladwen – anything to stop their infernal giggling if it meant he could get some sleep before his watch began. Elenath groused at him and sighed theatrically (which elicited a loud shush from Traston), but it was without malice and both knew it. Soon, an easy silence fell over the camp and Legolas drifted off.

The prince was woken late in the night as a hand descended softly on his shoulder. His eyes met Radhron’s as the commander peered down at him, and Legolas knew that it was time. Instantly awake, the young archer slid silently out from under the covers, nodding to his superior. Radhron signed that all was well and then retreated to his own bedroll, leaving Legolas to take over his post. The prince shrugged on his cloak before strapping on his weapons and padding away from the others. Quickly scanning his surroundings, Legolas picked out a tall spruce that grew a short distance from the campsite. Standing out proudly above the canopy of trees, it would provide the perfect vantage point from which to survey the area and keep watch over his sleeping companions. Jogging lightly over the snow, Legolas was soon at the base of the tree. He climbed high into its leafy, evergreen boughs and concealed himself among the foliage to wait out the night. His bow at the ready, Legolas scoured the forest as far as he could see, at first focusing on his immediate surroundings and then sweeping his gaze out over the murky depths of the woods and back again. His senses were on high alert for signs of danger, but like Radhron had reported, the prince found the forest to be quiet. Somewhere nearby, a herd of deer foraged delicately through the undergrowth, and as Legolas watched, a black fox emerged from her den. She stopped to sniff the night air and then trotted briskly off into the darkness in search of dinner. Greenwood was at ease tonight. A faint smile played at the corners of Legolas’s lips and his grip on his bow loosened ever so slightly. It would be a long night’s watch, but at least it promised to be a calm one.

Presently, it began to snow. Fine, powdery flakes floated lazily from the skies to wrap the landscape in a soft, white blanket. Legolas’s heart sang as he marvelled at the beauty of it, but then the snowfall grew heavier and he was forced to leave the verdant shelter of the spruce needles and inch his way out onto a bare branch as the visibility dropped. Initially, the young archer settled for simply brushing the snowflakes from his face, but it was a losing battle to which he eventually surrendered, raising his hood to keep the worst of the snow from his eyes. He had sacrificed a small percentage of his peripheral vision in doing so, but it could hardly be helped. The elf tugged at his hood, arranging it in such a way that it maximised his hearing. With his sight compromised by the snow and the fabric of his hood, Legolas would have to rely more on his other senses now. The elf drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders and peered out through the falling snow. An icy wind was beginning to pick up, and the prince hoped that they would not be in for a storm.

About an hour later, Legolas felt, rather than saw it. Something approached. Through the low howling of the wind, his sensitive ears could just make out the sound of several sets of light footfalls. Quickly, the prince nocked an arrow and waited, concentrating all his senses on the sounds as they grew nearer. He crouched low, making himself as small and inconspicuous as possible on his branch. Soon, a dark shape appeared from the trees, and Legolas breathed a sigh of relief. Rather than multiple beings, the cause of the footfalls – eight of them to be precise – appeared to be a single spider of the usual sort that plagued the Greenwood. Hardly a threat on its own. The elf resisted the urge to fell the creature where it stood, opting instead to simply watch the murderous arachnid. Provided it did not show signs of making for the camp, Legolas did not wish to reveal himself until he knew that the creature was indeed alone. He kept his bow trained on the spider as it crunched its way over the frozen ground, feeling a surge of elation that he seemed at last to have developed the skill to sense the presence of this blight on the forest. All the seasoned warriors could, and Legolas hoped that this was a sign that someday soon he would join their ranks. Just wait until he showed Estel! Legolas grinned at the thought of his young human friend, knowing how the Ranger would sulk at the elf’s new advantage over him.

Wiping the mirth from his face, Legolas refocused his attention on the spider. It was gaining on him, and as it approached, the elf’s newfound sense grew in intensity. Having no doubt in his mind now that not only was the arachnid the cause of his strange new awareness, but also that it was alone, Legolas released his bowstring with deadly effect. Slain before it had time to comprehend its plight, the spider dropped softly into the snow with a hiss, its hairy legs already curling in death. So great was the young warrior’s triumph that it took him a few precious moments to realise that far from his sense of danger having lessened, it had instead grown. Confused and alarmed, Legolas squinted at the body of the arachnid for signs of life before he frantically glanced about at the forest. Had he been mistaken? Were there more? Legolas did not get the time to find out, for pain exploded in his chest as he was flung backwards with such force that he toppled from his branch. His last sight was of a black arrow embedded in his flesh before his back impacted the branches below and his world went black.

The first thing to breach Legolas’s awareness was pain. A fierce, screaming agony that radiated from his chest and back, blocking out all else. He let out a quiet gasp and very nearly gave in to unconsciousness once again, but something managed to fight its way through the all-encompassing pain and into the forefront of his mind: _Goblins. He had to warn the others._ Legolas shot upright, everything else forgotten in his urgency, only to be overwhelmed by the pain as he nearly fell from the branches in which he lay. It was all he could do to cling desperately to the bark as he waited for the world to stop spinning enough to open his eyes. Forcing his leaden lids open, only now did Legolas notice the arrow that protruded from deep within his chest. His heart, already beating wildly within his ribcage, clenched in fear and the elf swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. When he managed to raise a hand to the wound, it came back slick with blood – if he tried to pull the arrow now, he risked bleeding to death. It would have to stay in, he knew – at least for the moment. Resigned to this, Legolas set his jaw and took a deep breath – a mistake. The resulting agony stole the air from his protesting lungs in a wheezing cough, and the archer tasted blood on his tongue. _Ai Elbereth._ Legolas managed to wrestle back control over his body and risked a shallow, cautious inhale. The pain was manageable this time, and he immediately glanced towards the camp, his mind back on the task at hand. To his frustration though, Legolas found that his view was obscured by a thick shroud of leaves – he had fallen some distance from his previous position and was now somewhere below the canopy, his earlier height advantage lost. He daren’t risk calling out, not unless he wished to alert every hostile entity for miles, and try as he might, Legolas could not summon the breath to mimic the falcon cry that would usually serve as the unit’s alarm. The elf cursed silently at his predicament. He would need to reach the others on foot and somehow avoid detection in the process. Praying that he would make it in time, Legolas set about disentangling himself from the branches and descending the spruce. He managed to clamber part of the way down ere his body gave out and he fell the rest of the way.

Once he had a firm grip on consciousness, Legolas staggered out of the snowbank and to his feet before he set off for the campsite as fast as his suddenly clumsy legs would take him. He clutched his white knives tightly, knowing that even if he had not lost his bow in the attack, his injury had robbed him of the dexterity he would have required to fire the weapon with any accuracy. The prince kept to the darkest shadows as much as possible, hoping that it might be enough to shield him from searching eyes. Please be in time, please be in time, _please be in time_. And then Legolas broke through the treeline into the blinding light of a winter dawn, and his world stopped.

_Red._

That was the first thing he saw. Red, spilling into white. Splashed across treetrunks and dripping slowly from leaves. The drops saturating the snow below, becoming seeping pools of the deepest vermillion. It covered the meagre belongings that lay scattered over the ground, and it all originated from... Legolas's legs almost gave out and he felt the blood drain from his face before he took off into the sunlight in a stumbling run. For the clearing was littered with the bodies of his friends.

He reached Radhron first, falling to his knees in the crimson snow and heedless of the pain that assailed his body. The commander appeared to have been the first to react to the intruders: the warrior had made it almost to the far edge of the clearing. He lay on his back now, a familiar black-fletched arrow buried in his throat. Radhron’s chestnut hair was sticky with congealed blood, and sightless green eyes stared hauntingly up at Legolas. The commander’s powerful chest was still. Already knowing what he would find and yet needing to be sure, the younger elf extended a hand. It was shaking so badly that he struggled to press his fingertips to Radhron’s torn throat – and when he did, no pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips. A sob caught in Legolas’s chest and in desperation, he pushed harder. At once, the lacerated flesh gave way, and to Legolas’s horror, his fingers plunged knuckle-deep into the bloody ruins of what had once been Radhron’s throat. With a small cry of terror, the prince withdrew, falling backwards into the tainted slush. The fire in his chest billowed and flared as he started to cough again. His breathing was coming too fast and too hard, and dizziness threatened to steal his senses as stars danced before his eyes. Only once he tasted blood did he manage to steady his breathing enough for his sight to return. Steeling himself, Legolas closed his commander’s eyes and got his feet under him. He needed to check the others. Wobbling to his feet as his breath came in shallow wheezes, the young elf made his way towards the centre of the carnage.

Traston and Radriel lay a short distance apart, each mutilated in ways more horrible than the last. It looked as though someone had taken a scimitar to their faces – if not for their silver and blonde heads, Legolas did not think he would have been able to identify them. Whoever had performed this sadistic act had done so with an intense hatred for their victims, the likes of which lay beyond Legolas’s wildest comprehension. The ground around the two elves was covered with blood and flesh, and the archer fought the urge to vomit as he rolled them over, unable to stand the sight any longer.

A soft groan drew Legolas’s attention away from Traston and Radriel. His head snapped up, his eyes darting to a bloodied lump that lay close to the middle of the clearing. The sound carried to his ears once more, and Legolas scrambled towards it, daring to hope. He reached Caladwen just as the elleth groaned again.

“Cala?” Legolas’s own voice came out so thin and breathless that it startled him as he knelt beside the red-haired swordmaiden. She was lying on her front and there was so much blood that Legolas could not ascertain from whence it came. He reached out to brush away the hair that obscured her face as he repeated her name. “Caladwen, hear my voice.” A pair of unfocused grey eyes opened slowly and the elleth tried to turn her head to face Legolas. Her mouth opened and her lips moved to form words, but instead, only blood flowed forth and soaked into the snow. Legolas felt his heart quicken. “Cala, I need to see where you are hurt. I am going to turn you.” The swordmaiden’s eyes widened in fear as Legolas gathered her into his arms, and it was only when a heap of something warm, red, and soft spilt out into his lap that he realised why. Caladwen thrashed once before she shuddered and went still. The unmistakable smell of blood and viscera hit Legolas and he was violently ill again and again as he tried to free himself from the tangled mess of entrails that seemed to cover him from the waist down. The world closed in around him as he choked, his laboured breath coming in stabbing gasps. Legolas could not get enough air, and his panicked hyperventilating only intensified as the carnage around him began to spin with sickening velocity, the edges starting to fade to black. If he did not get air soon, he would drown in this swirling miasma of terror. Legolas scrabbled blindly at the snow as he panted uselessly for breath. He was growing increasingly dizzy. He needed air. No matter how fast he sucked it in though, no oxygen reached his burning lungs. He needed air but could not breathe. His surroundings lurched, black spots appearing over red and white; becoming a terrible entity of blood and death that sought to consume him. Air. Ai Valar, he needed air. Help. _Someone help._

Legolas opened his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath into his aching lungs and finding that _he could_. He must have passed out. His whole body ached and his head pounded in time to his racing heart, but at least he could breathe. Turning his head, Legolas caught sight of Caladwen’s ruptured body lying in the ruby snow beside him. The mass of red that had spilt from her open belly steamed in the frigid winter air and Legolas felt bile climbing up his throat again. He scrambled to his feet with a frightened whimper, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the grisly spectacle as possible. The young warrior was shaking so intensely that he could barely walk, but he had to keep going. He had one more body to find. And once that had been done, Legolas could finally lie down and pass into the Halls of Mandos with the others. The arrow in his chest had pierced his lung, the elf knew, and he supposed that it was only his mission that still kept him alive at this point. And so Legolas braced himself, wiped the blood from his chin, and began to trudge through the snow in search of his oldest friend.

But where was he? Legolas squinted across the site of the attack, not seeing any further bodies. The snow had been sullied with the bloody footprints of elves and goblins alike, such that even Legolas had trouble distinguishing between them. He could feel his body giving in to his wounds more with every passing moment, and part of him hoped that he would simply die before he could find whatever was left of Elenath, thus sparing his heart. But, it was not to be, it seemed. Legolas had stumbled across a single set of footprints that led away from the campsite and into the trees. He forced his wooden legs to follow, and sure enough, there at the base of an aspen, was Elenath. The Silvan had gone down fighting, for next to his friend lay the twisted corpse of a goblin, and the patchy snow here was splattered with both red and black. The raven-haired elf’s face was pale and blood had pooled beneath his head. His right arm was unnaturally bent and the Silvan’s sword sat a few feet away as though someone, in an effort to disarm the young warrior, had cruelly ground the limb into the dirt until it had snapped. Legolas had found him; his mission was complete. The elf felt all the air leave his lungs as he sank to his knees in defeat, tears overflowing from his eyes and merging with the salty tracks that already streaked the archer’s cheeks. And that was when he saw it – the subtle rise and fall of Elenath’s chest.

Legolas froze, forgetting all else. Several long moments passed before he could convince his body to move, and then his hand shot out to grasp Elenath’s shoulder, squeezing for all he was worth.

“Nath?” No response. Legolas’s chest clenched as his newfound hope wavered. Was his traumatised mind finally starting to hallucinate? He placed a hand on the Silvan’s neck, finding an erratic but easily detectable flutter of life that made his hope awaken anew. “Nath, wake up!” Despite the archer’s urging, Elenath did not stir, though his breathing remained even. Legolas bit down on his bottom lip in agitation, proceeding to start a basic triage. The Silvan’s sword arm looked to be badly broken, and the sleeve of his tunic was dyed wine red. Cautiously, Legolas lifted the raven hair to examine the elf’s obvious head injury – likely the cause of his friend’s unconscious state. The skin across Elenath’s temple had been split open and ugly, mottled bruising had begun to blossom over the Silvan’s face and neck. This was not an injury made by any goblin weapon, Legolas realised. No, this had to be… He cast his eyes over Elenath’s general vicinity, soon finding it: a blood-spattered rock about an arm’s length away. Picking it up, Legolas cringed. The sheer amount of blood on the rough surface could mean only one thing – his friend had been bludgeoned repeatedly, likely until he had succumbed to unconsciousness and had been taken for dead. The elf struggled to suppress the panic that rose within him at the implications of this on the Silvan’s head injury. If Elenath had any hope of survival, Legolas would need to get his friend help urgently. And that would entail moving him – the last thing that should be done with an injury of this sort, especially one as severe as this. Legolas swallowed hard, trying to quell his shaking and think. He forced himself to his feet, willing his failing body to comply. No longer could he give in to death: not whilst Elenath still drew breath, bent and broken on the forest floor. Legolas would be the Silvan’s only chance of salvation, and he owed it to his friend to try until his last breath.

Legolas shut his eyes against the immense death that bathed the clearing in terrible red as he crossed the gory expanse, only cracking them open when he would lose his footing, tripping over things that he could not bring himself to look at. He quickly gathered what supplies he could salvage before he returned to his friend. First, he cut away Elenath’s tunic to reveal the mangled arm beneath. The flesh was laid open in several places and dark veinous blood oozed steadily from the wounds. Legolas muttered a curse under his breath, applying pressure to the best of his ability as he dug around for a needle and thread with his free hand. He needed to stop the bleeding, but to his utter dismay, Legolas’s hands were shaking too badly for him to stitch. He only stabbed his fingers when he tried, eventually dropping the needle in the leaves where it vanished from sight. Blood continued to well up over the archer’s fingers, and so he did the next best thing – he bandaged the arm as tightly as he deemed safe. As he worked, Legolas felt bones shifting gratingly under the pressure until he was dry heaving into the snow, unable to contain his horror. After scrubbing blood and bile from his lips, the prince carefully splinted the arm before wrapping his friend’s head in bandages with the utmost care. Elenath made a soft, pained noise as the blond elf turned his battered head, but he did not gain consciousness. Legolas unclasped his own cloak from around his neck and tucked it snugly around the Silvan. The season’s chill bit at his skin and soon shivers merged with the prince’s shaking. He had one last thing to do before they could leave for home.

Legolas skirted around the clearing this time, unable to bring himself to set foot on that abhorrent red snow or to risk catching another glimpse of the fallen. Reaching the patch of grass where the horses had been left the previous night, Legolas stopped in his tracks and stared aghast at what lay before him. Three of the horses lay lifeless on the ground. Their corpses had been butchered: limbs hacked loose from slender bodies, and great chunks of flesh torn away from exposed bone. Legolas counted his own beloved mare among them. Beyond the bodies, trails of dark claret stood out sharply against white where the goblins had dragged their prizes, eventually vanishing into the gloom of the forest. The other horses were gone, and Legolas noticed that three sets of hoofprints led away from the site and into the woods. He turned numbly to head back to Elenath, his mind overwhelmed and unable to come up with a solution to this new dilemma – just before a rustling sound broke out in the undergrowth. Legolas shrank back against the nearest treetrunk, suddenly becoming aware that he had lost both of his knives. His fists clenched into tight balls at his sides and he held his breath. If the goblins had returned, he would not be able to defend Elenath and the creatures would surely claim another two victims before the day was ended.

A wary snort sounded, and then a large white shape came into the light.

“Cerulean?” It was none other than Elenath’s cremello stallion. The horse was uneasy – his flared nostrils catching the overpowering scent of death. As Legolas approached, the animal skittered sideways, but not before the elf had managed to catch hold of the rope that dangled from the stallion’s halter. After soothing the spooked horse, Legolas wasted no time in fitting the steed with the first bridle that he found on the ground. The goblins had rifled through the tack, and Legolas could not find Cerulean’s saddle amongst the chaos. There was no time to look, and so the elf grasped the reins and led the horse to his master. Carefully, he pulled the unconscious Silvan into his lap, cradling Elenath’s head in his arms for support. Legolas’s chest gave an agonising stab of pain as the arrow was jostled, and dizziness rose up to claim the archer once more. Through the ringing in his ears, Legolas realised that he would need to trim the shaft in order to travel. Once the pain had subsided enough for him to move, Legolas gently settled Elenath on the ground and used the Silvan’s utility knife to saw through the wood until the offending object was almost flush with his skin. Repulsed, the prince flung the pieces away from himself, instantly regretting the sudden movement. Fresh blood was seeping from the wound with renewed intensity, and time was of the essence more than ever before.

Somehow, Legolas was able to get both himself and Elenath mounted once Cerulean knelt for them, and then the forest was flashing by in a blur as the horse took off for the palace. Blood dripped steadily from Legolas’s chest and he started to feel faint, but he gritted his teeth and clung fiercely to Elenath, daring his body to just _try_ giving up before he could deliver his friend to the healers.

They had been riding for several hours when Elenath shifted in the prince’s grasp as he let loose a pained moan. Legolas startled at the sound and immediately slowed Cerulean to a walk, breathlessly whispering the Silvan’s name until a pair of blue eyes opened, at first looking confused and then growing wide and panicked. “Nath! Elenath Thalion!” Legolas pulled him in close, trying to minimise his friend’s struggling.

“…Las?” Much to Legolas’s relief, Elenath stilled.

“Aye, I am here. You need to stay calm, you have a – ”

“Don’t feel well.” Elenath scrunched his face and then gasped. “Sweet Eru. Las, stop; I – ” Before the Silvan could finish what he was going to say, he started to vomit all over both himself and Legolas. The prince held onto his friend grimly throughout the process, doing his best to support Elenath’s head while simultaneously trying to calm his own stomach. He had foolishly hoped that his friend’s head injury was not as bad as it appeared, but this did not bode well. He wiped up the worst of the mess and then tucked the raven head under his chin, hushing the Silvan’s mumbled apologies. Oddly, the other elf had not commented on the arrow shaft that still stuck out of the prince’s chest, but Legolas supposed that this was for the best. If his friend found out about the injury, he would insist on stopping to treat the wound – Legolas was in no condition to argue, and the wasted time might just be the death of the Silvan.

Elenath murmured something into Legolas’s neck and started to shiver. The prince readjusted the cloak and tightened his hold on his friend, knowing that he needed to try to keep the other elf conscious long enough for him to establish the warrior’s condition.

“Nath?” There was a long pause and Legolas was about to repeat himself when Elenath spoke.

“Lasss?” His voice was weak and he was slurring his words.

“Nath, I need you to stay awake, alright? You’ve a head injury – I do not yet know how bad. Can you talk to me?” Elenath muttered something unintelligible but made no effort to respond otherwise. Legolas felt fear claw unwelcome at his chest, and Cerulean must have picked up on this, for the horse increased his pace unbidden.

Legolas went on for some time, trying to get a coherent response out of the young Silvan, but receiving nothing more than grunts and cries of pain – which only gave fuel to his worry. Legolas was trying to calculate how much further they had still to go when Elenath went rigid in his hold. Wincing, Legolas slowed the horse, sure that the Silvan was going to vomit again. Except, what actually followed was worse – so much worse. The raven-haired elf cried out as he started to shake and convulse, and Legolas nearly dropped him in his haste to dismount. Dizziness and pain engulfed him as his feet hit the ground, and he went down, his friend still clutched to his chest with every ounce of strength that the prince had left. Above all else, he had to keep Elenath’s head still. Hold his head. _Hold his head._ Hold. His. Head. Legolas’s breathing had been replaced by excruciating sobs as tears of anguish rolled down his cheeks. _Hold his head._ He hugged Elenath to his body as the Silvan twitched and writhed; crying brokenly as he begged his friend to live. It was getting harder to breathe now, and the dizziness had not left. Stay awake and _hold his head_.

Legolas was not sure for how long he sat on the cold ground, holding Elenath as the Silvan seized; powerless to do anything other than to try to protect his friend’s head from sustaining further damage. But then the awful spasms stopped, and the breath left Elenath’s chest in a quiet sigh as the elf went limp. Legolas felt himself go cold, frozen in fear before he summoned the last of his courage and pressed his fingers to the groove in the Silvan’s neck. His own shaking had returned in full force now, and it took him several harrowing moments of limbo before he was able to find a pulse. Legolas’s relief soon gave way to fear again when it became apparent that the warrior’s pulse was considerably weaker than it had been before. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Elenath’s jaw, mirroring the frothy sanguine that Legolas had coughed up as he had wept. They were running out of time. The prince turned a pleading gaze on Cerulean, and a knowing look seemed to pass between elf and beast. Once Legolas and Elenath were on his broad white back once more, the horse immediately tore off at a breakneck gallop, his gait imbued with the speed of the elves.

Legolas lost track of the passage of time as he held his friend protectively and focused his mind on staying awake. He was grateful for Cerulean, as the prince was certain that he would have long ago fallen from the horse’s back by now if not for the extreme care with which the stallion carried his riders. Soon though, Legolas felt unconsciousness creeping up on his awareness – he had reached the end of his endurance. He lifted his head for one last look at their surroundings at the same time as Cerulean slowed. The gates of the palace clanged shut at their backs, and at once voices began to call out. Moving shapes surrounded the horse and his burdens, and Legolas felt hands on his exhausted body. _They were home._ And with that knowledge, the young archer gave in to the rising oblivion. His duty had been done.


	2. Fray

Hands were on him, and then off him. Grasping, prodding, and poking. Stitching, wrenching, and twisting. Fire burned through his chest and exploded over his back in a storm of terrible fury that took its fuel from his own misery. Blackness swamped his awareness, drowning his senses in sweet nothingness, trading his suffering for precious, scattered moments of oblivion. Fevers raged mercilessly through his weakened body, bringing back the grasping, prying hands and the return of his agony. Bright lights made way to candlelight and candlelight to dazzling radiance and distant birdsong before the cycle would repeat again and again and again. Legolas was screaming. Screaming and screaming as his tortured body bucked and twisted in an attempt to free itself, but the hands only held him down to facilitate his torment.

When at last the haze lifted from his mind, Legolas awoke to a confused and fragile lucidity. His body hurt all over, though his chest and back were the worst. The elf sucked in a sharp inhale, groaning when the action sent a crushing pain through his ribs before his breath was stolen by a hacking cough. When the black spots cleared from his vision, Legolas sat up gingerly and pushed aside the covers as he panted for air. He was in his chambers, he observed, and judging from the light streaming in through the open window, the prince judged it to be around mid-afternoon. Something hovered at the edge of his consciousness: something important – yet out of reach, and Legolas frowned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. An awful sense of dread hung over him, and he was afraid of what he might remember should he delve into the hidden recesses of his mind. But he had to remember. He _needed_ to remember.

Legolas stood, almost immediately falling back onto the bed as his vision blacked out and his head pounded and spun with dizziness. He let out a slow breath, chiding himself for having gotten up so quickly. He had been injured countless times before and he knew better than this. Once his head cleared, Legolas tried again – more carefully this time. Using the bedpost for support, he cautiously pulled himself to his feet, clutching the wooden column tightly until the world around him stood still. On straightening up, the prince caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror which stood in the corner of the room. He was clad only in thin leggings, and his otherwise bare torso was wrapped in bandages. His long flaxen hair had been braided into a single, loose plait, though several sleep-mussed strands had escaped their confines to frame his face. Legolas’s skin was pale; his eyes ringed by dark shadows as sweat glistened on his forehead, but the prince barely noticed any of this as his eyes fell to his chest. A tentative hand raised itself of its own accord, coming to rest over the space between his collarbone and breast where the bandages were at their thickest. Trembling fingers pressed down lightly, and then began digging in: searching, until Legolas emitted a shocked gasp as pain flared beneath his touch. He stumbled backwards, staring wide-eyed at his fingers; transfixed as visions of red and white flooded his mind. _Ai Valar, no._ It could not be. Legolas stopped only to grab a robe from his wardrobe, wrapping it about himself before he flung open the door to his chambers and almost ran from the room in his haste. This could all just be a terrible dream, if only... _Elenath._ His back gave a sharp spasm but in his adrenaline-fuelled state, the prince hesitated for only a moment. _He needed to find Elenath._

Legolas strode quickly through the halls, his own condition forgotten as he made for the chambers of his Silvan friend. He used secret passageways through the mountain that were known to only a select few of the palace’s inhabitants, for he did not wish to be discovered by any well-meaning servants. He needed to find Elenath urgently; needed to confirm that the frightful scenes in his mind were merely fevered nightmares. Soon, Legolas rounded a corner in the stone tunnel and paused to catch his breath before he pulled aside a tapestry. After checking that the way was clear, Legolas stepped out into a hallway lined with doors and hurried towards one that lay midway down the corridor. Upon reaching the heavy wooden portal, however, the elf found his body unwilling to respond. His muscles, strong and supple from years of warrior training were frozen in place, and his mouth was suddenly dry while his heart hammered wildly against his ribs. He should just turn around and leave. Elenath was probably outside at the training fields and not in his chambers in the middle of the day. This was all foolish paranoia, Legolas tried to convince himself; perhaps he had hit his head when he had been injured. Elenath would surely tease the prince mercilessly for having been so worried over nothing. He should turn around and return to his chambers; sleep off the confusion.

Sudden footsteps in the hall spurred Legolas into action. Without thinking, he wrenched the door open and darted into the room, pulling it shut behind him with a soft click.

“Nath?” His voice, harsh with disuse, startled him. But not nearly as much as the healers clustered around the Silvan’s bed did.

“Prince Legolas?” As one, the three elves turned to face the young archer, who only took the opportunity to scurry between them to gain a view of the bed’s occupant and subject of their ministrations.

Elenath was covered by crisp white linen – only the raven head protruded from the sheets, swathed in bandages. The deathly pallor of the Silvan’s visage contrasted sharply with the dark bruising that marred the right side of his face and extended down the exposed skin of the elf’s neck before it disappeared under the bedding.

“My prince, what are you - ” The healers began to bustle around him, but Legolas was barely aware of them as his hand hovered over the covers, trepidation pounding in his throat. He needed to see it. Before he could lose his nerve, the blond archer pulled back the sheets to reveal Elenath’s upper body. The Silvan had been dressed in a short-sleeved sleep tunic, leaving his sword arm in full view – that is, the parts of it that were not obscured by bandages and splints. Legolas dropped the bedding as if it had burned him and took a short step back from the bed. Something had lodged itself in his chest, making his breathing catch and his limbs tremble.

“What happened?” he managed to get out, turning pleading eyes on the healers. _This was it._ Legolas’s breathing hitched nervously as the elves fixed him with three identical looks that were equal parts bemusement and concern.

“Prince Legolas, we were hoping that you could tell us that.”

It was as though the head healer had punched Legolas in the gut. He gasped out a shuddering exhalation, swaying where he stood for a moment before he flung out an arm to catch himself against a small table. Legolas’s hand collided with a pitcher of water instead, and he would have fallen to the floor in a spray of crystalline liquid had not a hand grasped his elbow, keeping him on his mutinous feet for long enough to steer the young prince into an armchair, where he sat down hard and dropped his head into his hands. His breath was coming in ragged pants.

“My prince?” The healer crouched beside the archer, worry showing clearly on his face. “Do you not remember?”

Legolas could dimly hear the healer, Laegon, speaking to him over the rush of blood in his ears. The words sounded distorted and far away, as though they came to him from underwater. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it; to banish this waking nightmare. “…Were attacked,” he heard the voice continue, “…Only survivors…” No. No no _no._

“No!” Legolas had not meant to gasp the word out loud, and he raised his eyes to meet several anxious faces. Laegon’s brows knit as the head healer regarded the prince, his green eyes filled with sorrow.

“Then perhaps it is for the best.” The elder elf put a gentle hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Mayhap the memories will return in time, my prince.”

“I - ” Legolas started, realising that Laegon had taken his exclamation as an answer to the healer’s question. He fell silent though, realising that he had not the energy to explain, and so he simply nodded his head meekly. There would be time enough later to correct the misunderstanding. Right now, there was something more important at hand. Without warning, Legolas lurched forward and to his feet, causing the healers to grab for him as his legs sought to betray him for a second time.

“My lord, you are not yet well and should not be out of bed!” Legolas regained his balance enough to shrug off the healers, spinning away and out of their reach. He was struggling for breath, but matched their stares with icy countenance.

“Elenath,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “I will know of his condition – _now_.” He glared at the three healers, daring them to challenge their prince. One of their number, a young elleth called Elweth, tried to speak but was silenced by Laegon.

“Very well, Prince Legolas.” The healer gestured to the Silvan, lying unmoving on the bed. Legolas did not miss the defeated tone of his voice or the way the healer’s shoulders slumped slightly as he led the way to the bedside. The healer straightened the covers around the dark-haired warrior before he spoke, as if stalling for time. “Elenath has suffered extensive injury to his right arm. The bones are broken in several places along both the fore and upper arm.” Legolas cringed, remembering with sickening clarity how the bones had shifted beneath his hands as he had splinted the limb. He had not detected the damage to the upper arm, and felt a crushing wave of guilt envelop him at the possibility that he had exacerbated the injury in his own ignorance. “It will be slow, but I believe that his arm will heal. Only time will tell if Elenath will regain full use of the limb, though.” Legolas only just managed to conceal his sharp intake of breath. An elven warrior, maimed for the rest of his kin’s long life. It was too heartbreaking to bear thinking about.

Legolas fidgeted with the hem of his robe, trying to fight down his rising anguish as he waited for the healer to continue. Laegon made no further move to speak though, until Legolas raised his eyes and fixed the older elf with a pointed stare. It may have been the prince’s imagination, but it appeared as though the healer lifted his gaze skyward for a fraction of a heartbeat before he resumed speaking.

“It is young Thalion’s head injury that concerns me,” Laegon admitted, lightly palming the Silvan’s forehead and checking the warrior’s pulse. The elder elf tried to hide it, but Legolas could tell that the healer was not encouraged by his findings. His usually quiet and serene demeanour exuded uncharacteristic nervousness. “He has sustained multiple contusions to his skull, and we cannot rule out the possibility of fractures. He experiences frequent bouts of vomiting and seizures, and his moments of consciousness are brief; his mind confused. My prince, I fear -”

“How long?” Legolas was quick to interrupt the healer, not wishing to hear what he feared would be said next. The young archer’s voice was but a whisper, and Laegon looked uncertain for a moment before speaking.

“Five days, my lord. It has been five days since you rode into the palace carrying him. You lost consciousness before we could..." Laegon continued, but Legolas was no longer listening. His limbs had begun to shake fiercely and his chest was gripped by a tightness that had nothing to do with his wounds. Nausea rolled in the pit of his stomach and his throat clenched, protesting the prince’s attempts to draw breath.

“Thank you, Laegon,” he blurted, and then turned to head for the door, trying to keep his movements from betraying his panicked state. “That will be all.” Reaching the door, he yanked it open. The elder healer moved to follow his prince, but Legolas halted him, hoping that his voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Do not follow me!” He stepped into the passage then, accidentally banging the door shut after him. The harsh sound reverberated through the hallway, which only served to ratchet up his distress as he fled the scene in a mad dash, snatching aside the tapestry with only moments to spare before he collapsed against the cold stone. They were all dead. All dead, and it was _his fault_.

Legolas let out a small, keening sound and drew his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms around them as he tried to even out his breathing. _Radhron_. Legolas ran a trembling hand through his hair, tugging the braid loose in tangled strands. _Traston_. Tight coils squeezed the breath from his lungs. _Radriel_. His heart throbbed, pumping razor-sharp shards of ice through his veins. _Caladwen_. Waves of nausea roiled in his churning stomach. Legolas’s chest burned with the frantic fluttering contained within. What breath he managed to suck in rasped cruelly at his impossibly constricted throat. _Elenath_. It was too much. A rough sob tore loose from his chest, and then another and another, until his slender frame shook with their assault. Hands clutched at his breast; fisted in his hair, but he was too broken. Too far gone to stop it. _Radhron, Traston, Radriel, Caladwen, and Elenath. All dead or dying because of him._

“Prince Legolas?” Legolas pressed his hands to his mouth in an attempt to smother his sobs at the sound of his name. Footsteps could be heard in the passage outside, and he recognised the voice as belonging to Laegon. The archer scooted backwards up the tunnel, rounding a bend in the stone and letting a teary breath through his fingers before dragging a hand across his face. They were looking for him and he needed to make it back to his chambers before the healers did. Closing his eyes, Legolas tried to clear his mind and focus on his breathing. He felt sick and his body ached all over. In and out. _In… and out_. “My lord?” The voice grew closer to his refuge, and a soft, hiccoughing sob escaped the young prince’s lips as he scrambled to his feet, supporting himself against the rock wall with the splayed fingers of his left hand. Legolas pulled himself together as best he could, and took a few wobbly steps up the passage, silent tears still coursing down his cheeks despite his efforts at curbing them. He cried out softly as a great stab of pain tore through his back, a pain so intense that he was forced to slump against the wall until the worst of it passed and he could breathe through the pain. Legolas forced his legs to keep going, to keep carrying him over the hard floor that had suddenly become quicksand; each step draining him of what little energy he had left. His shoulders twitched with the effort of holding back the wall of agony that assaulted both his body and mind, but somehow he made it back to his chambers. He closed the door behind him and quickly twisted the lock shut before allowing himself to sink to the floor in a defeated, quivering tangle of limbs and sobs. His teeth chattered and the tears refused to stop, but Legolas found himself too exhausted to fight them anyway, so what did it matter. All he could do was to curl into a ball, wrapping his cloak around himself to ward off the cold of the floor, until eventually, the raw sobs gave way to soft sniffling. Soon after, a welcome darkness absolved him of his senses and he knew no more.

Legolas woke to a light rapping on his chamber door. Groaning, he pulled his robe over his head, hoping that whoever it was would give up and go away. There was a pause and then the knocking sounded again, louder and more insistent. The door handle turned and then rattled.

“Prince Legolas?” The worried voice on the other side was clearly Laegon’s. “Please open the door, for I need to examine you.” There was no escaping this, Legolas realised with a surge of hopelessness. Ignoring the healer would only escalate the elder elf’s worry, and complying would be easiest for everyone. 

“Coming, Laegon.” Cursing as his injuries made their presence known, Legolas eased himself upright, bringing his hands up to scrub at his face. They were no longer shaking so noticeably, and his heartbeat had come back almost to normal. Biting back a cry of pain, Legolas got to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall as he limped the short way back to the room’s entrance. He turned the key in the lock and plastered what he hoped was a nonchalant look on his face, and then opened the door. Laegon looked visibly relieved at the sight of his prince, and Legolas bid him enter with a wave of his hand. While the tawny-haired healer closed the door, Legolas dragged himself to his bed and settled on the side of the mattress. Laegon cast a disapproving look at the key that still sat in the lock, but he did not mention it as he strode purposefully towards the prince’s bedside, where he pulled up a chair. The healer carried with him a large satchel – no doubt filled with healing supplies – which he set down at his feet. As his trained gaze looked the younger elf up and down, Legolas did not miss the look in his eyes – something akin to pity, and it made him feel suddenly vulnerable as he thought of his face. He dropped his gaze to stare at his hands, waiting for Laegon to say something.

“My prince, I require your permission to start my examination.” Legolas raised his eyes, palpable relief flooding through him. It seemed impossible that the healer had not noticed the red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained face of his superior, but even so, the elder elf seemed to have chosen not to point them out.

“Permission granted. Do your worst, Laegon.” The healer exhaled through his nose in a soft huff and the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, the only small signs that he had noticed Legolas’s attempt at lightening the mood.

“How do you feel?”

“About as well as can be expected.” Legolas shrugged, choosing to interpret the question as one relating purely to his physical state. He stifled a growl of pain as the movement set off his back and chest, and fervently hoped that the flareup had gone undetected. Laegon nodded gravely, seeming to find the prince’s answer satisfactory, though the healer’s brows had knit.

“And how is your pain?” It was Legolas’s turn to frown at this, knowing that brushing away the question would not work – his answer needed to be believable.

“Present,” he answered truthfully, “However, it is bearable.” The healer nodded again, but before he could speak, Legolas continued. “What is the damage?” Laegon hummed lightly in thought for a moment and then began to speak.

“My prince, you have taken a serious arrow wound to your chest, broken two ribs, and injured your spine – I cannot yet be sure of the extent of the damage to that area, but that you are able to walk is encouraging. The arrow grazed your lung, but we were able to safely remove it from your body. Had it hit but a little higher, you would have bled to death.” Legolas flinched as Laegon’s fingers found his bandages, but almost instantly the prince had smoothed a fragile mask of indifference over his face. He dipped his head to indicate that the healer should continue. “While the arrow was not poisoned, your wound developed a serious infection, and your fever only broke this morning.” Laegon pressed his palm to Legolas’s forehead as if to reaffirm this. “You will need to be careful not to exert yourself for the next few days, lest it should return. While most of your internal damage appears to be healing well, we could not allow the wound to close until the infection cleared, so you will need to take care with the wound – keep it bound and avoid getting it wet.” The elder elf had successfully unpinned the bandages and quickly unravelled them from his young patient’s chest to expose a layer of dressings beneath. “Prince Legolas?” Expectant, practised fingers took hold of the corners of the slightly damp gauze.

“Laegon?” Legolas tried to hide the fact that he spoke through clenched teeth.

“This may hurt, but please bear with me.”

Legolas let out a loud grunt despite himself as the healer lifted the dressings from the wound, and his hands grabbed the bedclothes in a white-knuckled grip. The healer apologised immediately, explaining that the seepage from the wound had caused the gauze to stick. Legolas nodded mutely, focusing on his breathing until the searing pain had faded to a dull ache, whereupon he pushed it to the back of his mind and craned his neck as he attempted to glimpse the wound. Laegon, realising what the prince was trying to do, held up a small hand mirror that rested upon the nightstand, and Legolas forced a tight smile in thanks as he took it. The arrow had pierced the flesh directly below his collarbone, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. As Legolas watched, a thin trickle of blood leaked from the edge of the wound and ran down the muscle below. Laegon pressed a clean dressing over the injury, gently wiping away the crimson and then discarding the gauze. He bent to rummage in his satchel while Legolas continued to inspect the damage. The prince could see that at some point, the site had been stitched, though the sutures had been pulled from the wound (likely once infection had set in), leaving behind rows of red puncture marks along the tender skin, which bore the oily residue of healing salve. Legolas squinted at his mirror image, attempting to ascertain how far into the wound he could see. He raised his free hand to his chest in preparation to explore the lacerated flesh with his fingers, but he was brushed away by Laegon and fixed with a reproachful emerald glare.

“Forgive me, my prince, but the infection has only just settled and I cannot allow you to risk further contamination.” Legolas hummed in resigned compliance and allowed the other elf to cleanse the wound, again setting his jaw against the pain.

“I am happy with the progress,” Laegon declared as he spread salve over the site, making Legolas hiss and flinch. “If it is still clear of infection tomorrow, the wound can be closed again.” Legolas was no longer paying much attention to what had been happening, but the prince offered his thanks anyway. Once his chest had been bound once more, he stretched lightly, immediately letting out a sharp cry when a shower of tiny needles exploded from his back and into his legs. His hands flew to his lower back as he was left gasping for breath. The hand mirror clattered to the floor, forgotten. “Prince Legolas! You must be careful with your back!” Laegon exclaimed, and then became deeply sombre. “The damage to your spine may very well be worse than the arrow wound.” Of course, it would have been too much to hope that falling from a tree straight onto his back would not have resulted in serious injury. “My prince, with your permission, I would examine your back. It is only now that you are awake that I can attempt to truly gauge the damage.”

Still reeling from the pain, Legolas reluctantly conceded, dropping his hands and allowing Laegon to begin prodding at his tender flesh. But once the healer asked him to perform a series of flexions that left him doubled over and panting on the bed, Legolas reached his limit and sent the other elf from the room with what remained of his composure. As soon as he was left alone once more, the young elf staggered blindly into the adjoining bathing chamber, where he curled himself over the toilet and retched up bile into the running water below. Shocking pains raced each other up and down the lengths of his spine and legs while his chest burned. With each cough and spasm through his stomach, Legolas’s broken ribs screamed at him until his vision swam with the agony of it. But most of all, his friends were dead. All because he, Legolas, had been so arrogantly taken with his own perceived prowess as a warrior. It had never been the spider. He had never been able to sense its presence as he had so foolishly assumed. And still, he had brazenly, unforgivably ignored what his body had been trying to tell him. All elves could sense the presence of goblins – but Legolas had been so preoccupied with the thought of being somehow elevated among his peers that he had not even considered the possibility. And now, his friends had paid the ultimate cost for their prince’s ego. The young archer coughed and spat as his body rebelled against him, but there was nothing left inside of him. Nothing except the torment in his own mind.

When it was all over, Legolas gulped down a few grateful swallows of water and then stumbled back into his bedchamber. Laegon had left behind a vial of pain relief, but Legolas ignored it as he all but fell into bed. He deserved the pain he was in – all of it, and more. For what kind of warrior – _what kind of person_ – could have caused the senseless deaths of his comrades. By the time he shut his eyes, Legolas could already feel ripples of unconsciousness lapping at his throbbing head, and the elf surrendered himself gladly to the promise of nothingness.

“Legolas?” A familiar voice roused the prince from sleep as the unlocked door swung open. Legolas’s eyes focused in time to see a tall figure pass over the threshold, quietly closing the door behind itself. The room was murky with the fading light of evening, but Legolas instantly recognised the elf who had entered his bedroom.

“Ada.” His voice cracked with sleep.

“Penneth!” The golden Elvenking was immediately at the bedside, relief and great sadness alike emanating from his being. “Laegon told me that you had come back to us, though alas, it would seem that I have woken you.” Thranduil crouched and placed a hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” In comparison to what had befallen his friends, Legolas knew that his own pain was entirely insignificant; unworthy even of mention. He tried to force a tired smile for his father, whose face took on an unreadable look. “Laegon tells me you do not remember?” Legolas shook his head, only realising after how ambiguous the gesture had been when Thranduil sighed, the Elvenking’s sapphire eyes becoming at once faraway and sorrowful. “I am so deeply sorry, penneth.” The king softly brushed away a few errant strands of flaxen hair that clung to the prince’s cheek. “Know only that you did the best you could. I am proud of you, my son.”

Legolas had suddenly to choke back a sob at this. If his father only knew what had truly transpired, that _he_ was the reason his friends and comrades were dead and dying... And yet, Legolas found that he could not summon the will to tell Thranduil of this. He let out a quiet sigh as he averted his eyes, wishing to look anywhere but into the eyes of his father and king. Legolas could not bear to imagine the disappointment and betrayal that would glare back at him should Thranduil learn of his shame. And now, he realised miserably, he could add cowardice to the list of his failures. Legolas’s thoughts were interrupted as the Elvenking palmed his forehead, seeming satisfied before he spoke.

“You should rest, penneth, and heal. Do not hesitate to call for Laegon or me should you have need of anything at all.” Thranduil rose and drew the curtains shut, eclipsing what remained of the dim light. Then he bent over Legolas and pressed a light kiss to his son’s brow. Thranduil rose and crossed the room but paused as his hand settled on the doorknob. “And Legolas?”

“Yes, Ada?”

“Should you remember, please talk to me.” His voice was soft, but it still caused Legolas’s heartbeat to quicken with anxiety.

“Goodnight, Ada.” The elf watched his father go, and once the door closed and the footsteps receded, he stopped fighting the tears. He was too exhausted to endure for long, though, and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

Legolas slept until well into the next day, awakening only when Laegon entered the room around midday. It did not take the head healer long to pronounce the wound free of infection, whereupon the elder elf expertly sewed the ragged edges shut with a neat row of sutures. When it was done, Laegon summoned a servant, and soon a steaming bowl of broth was pushed into Legolas’s hands while a mug of tea was placed upon the end table. He was not hungry, but the healer bid him eat, promising that once he did he would be cleared to leave the bed for short periods should he feel up to it. It had been determined that nothing in his back was broken, and that while recovery would be lengthy, light exercise was likely to aid the healing process – provided that he was mindful of his injuries and did not overdo it. And so Legolas swallowed the tea and mechanically spooned the broth into his mouth, trying to hide how his hands shook until it was all gone and Laegon left the room to attend to his other duties.

Legolas reclined against the pillows, feeling sick to his stomach after having forced himself to consume the meagre sustenance. He lay quietly until the feeling passed and was slowly replaced with burgeoning strength as his body wasted no time in making use of the energy it had been given. Pushing back the covers, Legolas carefully rose. Laegon had left him with a wooden cane, and when a sharp twinge in his back almost brought him to his knees with a whimper, the young elf found that he was suddenly grateful for the support as he leaned heavily on the polished wood while cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He glanced at the vial of pain medication that still stood untouched on the end table but grit his teeth and dismissed the thought. _I deserve the pain._ Once the fire in his back had burned down to glowing coals of pain that flickered along with the throbbing in his ribs, Legolas laid the cane down against the bed and cautiously shuffled his way into the bathchamber. While he wished to submerge himself in the soothing embrace of a hot bath, Legolas did not trust that he would be able to rise again should he get into the smooth stone tub, given that he was no longer running on the adrenaline of the day before. Instead, he settled for sponging his exposed skin over the sink, hissing through clenched teeth as his injuries protested the movements. His ablutions completed, Legolas pulled on clean clothes – though he had to lean against the wardrobe for support.

Once dressed, Legolas took a moment to inspect his reflection. His hair, having been too difficult to braid at present, hung loose over his shoulders in a cascade of pale gold, and the mirror’s surface showed dark circles beneath still-red eyes. He tried a smile, but all that materialised on his face was a pained grimace that never reached his eyes, and so Legolas turned away in defeat. He shivered and retrieved an extra robe, pausing to catch his breath against the wall as a stab of pain lanced through his back again. Once it passed, Legolas straightened up as much as he could and stiffly made his way out the door and through the halls. There was something that he needed to do.

Legolas walked as quickly as his body would allow him, avoiding both Sindarin and Silvan elves alike until he finally reached Elenath’s bedchambers. He knocked lightly on the door and was surprised when it swung promptly open to reveal the flustered face of Elweth, Laegon’s apprentice. Wide-eyed, the elleth took a halting step backwards before she found her voice. She appeared anxious as she bowed to Legolas.

“Prince Legolas, forgive my rudeness! I was expecting Laegon; actually, I was about to go and seek him - ”

“Las?” A small, weak voice from the room’s interior made Legolas freeze, the healer forgotten. He recovered himself after a moment and almost collided with Elweth, such was his haste to enter the chamber. The prince had thought that he would never again hear that voice, and yet there it called out to him once more. Oh Eru, let this not be some cruel joke. And then Legolas saw him.

“Nath?!”

Elenath was seated on the edge of the bed. His back was to Legolas, exposing his naked torso, the skin of which shone with sweat. His long dark hair was tangled as though the Silvan had been thrashing against the bedclothes, which were tangled about his waist. Even before he reached the bed, Legolas could see how his friend’s shoulder’s trembled and heaved. Elenath twisted slowly at the sound of his name, turning searching blue eyes in Legolas’s direction.

“Las?” he repeated. Legolas reached the Silvan’s bedside then and grasped Elenath’s good hand, but drew back sharply when the swordsman startled and pulled away with a loud hiss.

“Nath, I am here!” Something was wrong, Legolas realised with a crushing sense of dread. Something was terribly wrong. For though Elenath’s gaze was upon him, it was as though the Silvan stared through him, his fair face devoid of any recognition.

“Las, I can’t see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has picked up this story, and especially to those of you who have left words of encouragement. I treasure each review and they really keep me going. From next chapter, we'll be moving into heavier content, and Aragorn will also be coming into this story soon.


	3. Sharp Edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been a while since I updated this last, though I've been working on and off on getting this chapter up the entire time. Please note that this chapter contains trigger warnings for disturbed mental health, panic attacks, and self-harm. Take care of yourself and stay safe! The world is currently a rather scary place, and while we all know the effects it could have on the physical health of ourselves and others, remember not to neglect your mental health. If you or someone else is struggling, please reach out <3

_ “Nath, I am here!” Something was wrong, Legolas realised with a crushing sense of dread. Something was terribly wrong. For though Elenath’s gaze was upon him, it was as though the Silvan stared through him, his fair face devoid of any recognition.  _

_ “Las, I can’t see.” _

“What do you mean, you can’t see?” Legolas felt a wave of weakness wash over him, and he sank to his knees. His hand somehow found Elenath’s outstretched one, gripping as though his very life depended on it. The Silvan before him said nothing, and a tear slipped from his eye and splashed onto the prince’s hand. “Elenath, tell me this is not so. Tell me that you can see!” Legolas almost choked on his own desperation as he pleaded brokenly with the raven-haired warrior. Elenath’s response, much to Legolas’s horror, was to attempt to shake his head. What happened next seemed to Legolas to take place in sickening slow motion, and yet at once, altogether too quickly for him to intervene. The Silvan gave a cry of pure agony that would haunt Legolas for years to come, and both the elf’s hands shot up to grab his head. Except, Elenath’s shattered right arm only made it halfway before the Silvan paled even further, looking as though he were about to be ill. And with that, his eyes rolled back in his head and Elenath toppled forward, landing heavily against Legolas’s chest. As his arms instinctively wrapped around his friend, the prince could think of only one thing – this was all  _ his _ fault. And then violent pain crashed over him and it was his own turn to cry out.

Legolas knew that he needed to get Elenath back to the safety of his bed with all due haste, but he found that the terrible pain in his chest and back – especially his back – rendered him almost entirely immobile, so much so that he could not even regain the breath that had just been cruelly ripped from his lungs. All he could do was clutch the Silvan in a death grip as he hoped for help to arrive. Luckily, Legolas did not have to wait for long before he felt hands on his shoulders. He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and saw the alarmed faces of both Elweth and Laegon peering down at him.

“Prince Legolas, what happened?” The elder healer was the first to speak, dropping to his haunches and removing one hand from the prince’s shoulder to check Elenath’s pulse. Legolas’s pain was receding now, and as he sucked air into his aching chest, he found that he was able to speak. 

“It was my fault.” The prince’s voice was but a whisper, and he hung his head as he felt tears pricking his eyes. “He was awake and I - I could not rein in my own emotions. I questioned him and caused him distress.” Legolas’s voice faltered, and he brought a hand up to scrub furiously at his face. “He aggravated his wounds and lost consciousness. Laegon, he… He couldn’t  _ see _ .” The prince raised eyes that shone with tears. To Laegon, he looked altogether like a lost elfling, and the sight broke the healer’s heart. “What does this mean?” 

“Prince Legolas.” Laegon could not help the small sigh that escaped his lips. He motioned for Elweth to assist him, and together the healers lifted Elenath’s unconscious form back onto the bed. The elder healer continued to speak while his expert fingers checked the Silvan’s vital signs. “Sometimes, severe head trauma can result in an array of other symptoms. While they can be extremely distressing, they are usually temporary, and we must not despair.” Once Laegon was satisfied that the unconscious elf was settled against the pillows and stable, the healer turned his attention once more to Legolas. “My Prince, can you stand? Prince Legolas? Can you hear me?”

“Usually temporary,” Legolas echoed, sounding hollow. “You say that this is  _ usually temporary _ .” Wincing, the prince pushed up off the floor and swayed to his feet. His legs, still tingling from the assault on his body, almost gave out, but the young elf shrugged Laegon’s hands off him with more force than was necessary. He was breathing hard, his fists clenched and trembling with emotion. “That is not good enough! For that implies the possibility of permanence, and I cannot accept that! There must be something that can be done.” His gaze was almost pleading as he looked to Laegon and then Elweth. A traitorous tear rolled down his cheek, and Legolas let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. 

“Prince Legolas.” The tawny-haired healer stayed his impulse to reach out to the stricken young elf before him. Through the layers of anger and confusion, he saw immense fear and hurt, and all his instincts screamed at him to console and nurture. Laegon was also experienced enough, however, to know that now was not the time, and so despite his wishes, the healer remained where he was. “With all my heart, I wish that this was not so, but alas, all we can do is to give Elenath time. We will treat what symptoms we can, and we must let him know that he is surrounded by our love and care. The rest, we must entrust to the Valar. Prince Legolas?”

“I need some air.” Legolas turned abruptly on his heel, making for the door with jerky, pain-filled movements. “I will return soon.” Laegon, from his position beside the bed, merely nodded sadly as he watched the younger elf go, once more feeling powerless to help despite a lifetime of training.

Legolas walked as fast as he could, quickly arriving at a small, secluded balcony. Reaching the furthest edge and far from prying eyes, the young prince allowed himself to slump over the railing, ignoring the throbbing of his wounds as he cast his gaze vacantly over the palace gardens that wound their way down the rocky slopes. Their beauty was lost on the elf; his focus solely on gaining control over the hitch in his breath and the shaking of his limbs as his mind raced along to his heartbeat.  _ Just breathe. _ He heaved a ragged breath as a tear made its way down his cheek, and almost immediately raised his hand to swipe the rebellious moisture from his skin.  _ Just breathe. _ Pain lanced through his back at the movement, and with a quiet whine, Legolas crumpled onto a nearby bench where he wrapped his arms around his tortured ribs. They ached fiercely with every inhale of frigid air, compounding the young elf’s efforts to normalise his breathing. That this was the first time in his short life that he had been injured thusly did nothing to help, either. The more he tried to breathe, the more it hurt, and the more it hurt, the more his lungs cried out for air. And Elenath couldn’t see, and it was all his fault.  _ Need to breathe. _ It was  _ all his fault _ . The world began to grey out, and Legolas gasped for air as he clutched his sides, whimpering brokenly at the agony that this simple act wrought upon him.  _ Can’t breathe. _

“Penneth!” Legolas’s head snapped up at the voice, as a pair of hands settled on his shoulders. Teary blue eyes widened as they met an identical and clearly alarmed set.

“A-Ada!” 

Thranduil had met with an empty room upon his attempt to visit his son, and when a trip to Elenath’s chambers had revealed only flustered healers and an unconscious Silvan, the Elvenking had abruptly taken off in search of Legolas. Rounding a corner in the passage, the sounds of soft sobbing had reached his ears, and without a second thought, the golden-haired king had darted towards the source: a nearby balcony. Once Thranduil’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he had been met with a truly heartbreaking sight – curled up upon one of the corner benches was his Legolas, clearly distressed as he appeared to fight for air, and the Elvenking all but sprinted to his side. 

“Penneth!”

“A-Ada!” As soon as Legolas raised his head, his eyes wild and panicked, Thranduil realized what was wrong. He dropped to his knees before his son and gently unwrapped the prince’s arms from his sides until he could take the trembling hands in his own. 

“It is your ribs, yes?” Thranduil himself had sustained many a broken rib in his life, and would not soon forget the pain that came with the injury – or the panic that arose with feeling one’s breathing constricted. When Legolas gave a frantic nod, the Elvenking knew what he needed to do: he had to get his son to calm, and in doing so to slow his frenzied gasping. “Penneth, hear my voice.” He shifted both of Legolas’s hands into one of his own, pulling them to rest against his chest. With his free hand, Thranduil cupped the base of the prince’s neck and began rubbing slowly and tenderly over the tense muscles. “Breathe with me. In… and out. Feel my chest rise and fall. Let your breath slow and match with mine. In… and out.” Legolas’s first attempt was met with violent coughing that left him dry heaving over the flagstones, on the verge of passing out. Thranduil persevered though, keeping his tone low and comforting, and eventually, Legolas’s breathing evened out. His eyes lost their terrified look, and the prince sat back, shaking visibly as he drew a sleeve over his forehead.

“Th-Thank you, Ada. I know not what came over me.” Heart still pounding, Legolas dropped his gaze, swallowing hard against the bile that burned his throat.

"Look at me, Penneth." Thranduil gently tipped the prince's chin up, and Legolas found himself staring reluctantly into the face of his father, the king's elegant features creased with worry. "I think this is about more than your ribs, my son. I was just in Elenath's chambers, and the healers seemed frightfully upset." Thranduil did not miss the way that Legolas stiffened at the mention of his friend. "Would you like to tell me what happened in there? Clearly, it has distressed you greatly."

"I - " The prince pulled away and scooted along the bench with a grunt of pain, stopping only once he had put some distance between himself and his father. He gazed out over the lightly falling snow, deliberately not looking at Thranduil when at last he spoke. "It is Elenath, Ada. He - he can't see!" Legolas's shoulders began to tremble with the effort of holding back emotion, and though Thranduil wished to take his son in his arms and comfort him, he knew that he needed to respect the young prince's space. "The healers, they do not -" Legolas paused for a moment and tried to compose himself before speaking again, his voice little above a whisper. "They do not know if his sight will return."

"Ai, Legolas. It saddens me to hear this." The king let out a heavy sigh, causing Legolas to turn and look at him. The expression of genuine grief on his father's face before the Elvenking hid it took the young elf aback. 

"Ada? What is it? Wait... you have seen this before, haven't you?" The usually stoic king shifted in discomfort under his son's gaze for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Legolas to know.

"Penneth, I fear that is a story for another time. It will do you no favours to hear of the horrors of war right now. Not whilst you are grieving."

"But - " Legolas's protests were hushed as Thranduil took his hands once more, and a haunted sadness returned to the Elvenking's eyes.

"Nay, Legolas. Trust me. Please trust me on this."

Heart pounding at the implications of his father's hesitance to talk, Legolas found that he could only nod mutely. 

"Come, Legolas. Allow me to walk you back to your chambers - you need to rest if you are to heal, and heal you must." Thranduil stood and offered an outstretched hand to his seated son. Legolas opened his mouth to say that no, he was quite alright where he was, but all that came out was a gasp of pain as his back throbbed, and after a moment he meekly took the hand of his father. Thranduil wrapped a supportive arm around the injured elf and helped him to his feet, then began to slowly steer him in the direction of his rooms, only to stop as Legolas baulked at a turn in the corridor.

"Elenath. I must check his condition first." Though the words were ground out through clenched teeth, the Elvenking could still feel the stubbornness that they held.

"Very well, Penneth. But then, you will rest in your chambers."

Legolas lay quietly in his bed, listening to the early evening chirping coming from his window. The covers were pulled up to his chin and though the bedding was soft and warm, he could not rest. Instead, his father's parting words to him echoed in his mind.  _ None of this is your fault, Legolas _ . Except that Thranduil did not know the truth: that all of it  _ was _ his fault, and it made the archer sick. To make matters worse, when they had passed by Elenath's chambers earlier, the Silvan had still lain deeply unconscious, and Laegon had been unable to say when, or indeed even if, he would wake. And yet, Legolas thought bitterly, here he lay, warm and safe in the royal chambers, while the souls of his companions paced the Halls of Mandos and the foul creatures that had slain them ran free in the darkness of the forest. If any elf should have died that fateful morning, it was himself. And so, Legolas waited. He waited until after the evening meal (which he had forced down for no reason other than to please Laegon). Until one by one, weary elves retired to their beds. Until Thranduil looked in on him and he feigned sleep. And until, at last, the palace was silent. Now he could act. 

Legolas waited just a little longer and then stood cautiously from his bed. Though dizziness and pain fast made themselves known, they soon passed – something Legolas noted with great relief. For what he was about to do, he could not afford to be weighed down by injury. Quickly, the young archer gathered his things, thankful that they had been returned to his room. He dressed simply, strapping on his white knives ere he drew, then sheathed them in practised movements, satisfied when the pain this caused was minimal. His hand reached unbidden for his bow, but the elf stopped with a scowl as he remembered the limitations placed upon him by his injuries. But of course! Shoulders straightening, Legolas crossed the room and swallowed the contents of the vial that still stood on his nightstand, before scrawling a hasty note that he tucked into his drawer. In the event that he did not return – and indeed, Legolas was not sure that he  _ meant _ to return – his father ought to know the truth. His task complete, Legolas grabbed his bow, buckled his quiver into place, and carefully opened his chamber door.

The hallway was bathed in soft candlelight to keep the night at bay. Legolas kept to the darkest of the shadows as he silently navigated the passages, making sure to avoid the night guards as he went. As a member of the royal household, Legolas knew their patrols by heart, and soon, his efforts were rewarded when he emerged into the chilly night air. He could not reach the stables without drawing attention, he knew, and so he would need to move on foot. It would take him longer, but it could not be helped. Pulling his cloak closer and trying to quell his shivering, Legolas set off into the night. For a debt would be paid in blood this night, and whether that blood be black or red mattered not.

_ Snap!  _ Legolas jumped sideways, groaning in pain. The snow had quickly saturated his clothes, and the young elf had long since given up on holding back his tremors as his body sought in vain to warm itself. He was chilled to the bone, and to make matters worse, his mind had begun to play tricks on him. Cursing, Legolas lowered the blade that he’d automatically drawn, and pressed a palm into his aching back. Only a branch, breaking under the weight of the snow. The archer let out his breath in a puff of steam and continued to trudge ahead, only to flatten himself against the trunk of a tree, his heart in his throat. A small bird burst from the undergrowth in a flurry of wings, squawking its displeasure at the elf who had so carelessly disturbed its sleep. Legolas, for his part, tried his best to draw in a slow and steady breath as he willed his racing nerves to calm. This was his beloved forest; he had grown up sheltered by her leaves and nursed by her waters – this was his home, and he need not be afraid.

Need not be afraid. Need not be afraid.  _ Need not be afraid. _ And yet, he had every reason to be afraid. As Legolas moved ever further into the heart of the forest, things around him began to  _ change _ . The once-comforting boughs of an oak became twisted, grasping claws that loomed in the dark, snagging in his hair and clothes as he passed. Leering faces swirled and whispered in the corners of his vision, all sharp teeth and forked tongues that vanished as soon as the elf’s glance alighted on them. Something cried out in the blackness, making the hairs on the back of the elf’s neck stand on end. And the snow, dropping softly all around him from laden branches, transformed as he watched into masses of crimson, dripping blood and viscera into pools at his feet. And Legolas realized that he was standing in it; his very clothes soaked in bloody claret as the metallic scent rose to his nostrils.  _ No!  _ Horrified, Legolas stumbled backwards, in his haste falling over himself and sinking deep into the ooze. A scream tore loose from his throat and he flailed wildly as he fought to gain his feet. Chunks of cold, torn flesh slithered over his hips and torso, and dark, congealed blood wrapped his body. Shadowy figures flitted between the trees, and the sounds of eerie, disembodied laughter reached his ears. Bloated, rotting entrails floated to the surface of the slurry, closing around his limbs and pulling: dragging him down into a sanguine grave. Panicked, Legolas raised his blade, hacking frantically to free himself. The shadows moved in closer, and Legolas could see that their decayed faces had once been those of elves. The innards pulsed and crawled over his chest, squeezing like a terrible snake with every frenzied pant that left his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

_ Pain _ .

Legolas choked in a heaving gasp that ended in a sob as his ribs protested, and his eyes darted to the source of this sudden, new pain. Above the bracer on his left arm and slightly below the elbow, blood was welling up from a cut, staining the green of his tunic sleeve.  _ Green? _ And indeed, his tunic was green, dark with water and not blood. His chest was clear, and around him, the snow was crisp and bright in the murky moonlight. As if to prove this, a large chunk of it fell softly beside him with a muffled thump. In the distance, a fox called, and then the forest was quiet. It was just that: a forest. The only blood was that which trickled from his own forearm, red and real as the stinging pain that throbbed in his cut flesh, made by his own blade as he’d fought against the visions of the darkness. Legolas stood, finding that he could do so with relative ease, and brushed the worst of the snow from himself. As he looked out at the seemingly normal woods around him, Legolas realized it: this was no longer his Greenwood, and he was no longer safe here. She had stolen his innocence, and now it felt as though her very air meant him harm, cloying and thick with malice. This was Mirkwood now, and he needed to leave. And so, his mission abandoned, Legolas turned and fled for the palace as he tried to breathe through the lump in his throat. Between his fingers, he clutched the bloody cut in his forearm, for the pain was all that he could trust right now. The pain was real.

Legolas made it back to his chambers just as the first few notes of birdsong pierced the silence that had until now been broken solely by his own ragged gasping. Only when the door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock did he dare to let go of his slowly bleeding arm. Making his way to the bathchamber, Legolas shed his outer garments and peeled off his sodden tunic so that he could inspect the wound. Despite the blood that dripped sluggishly into the stone basin, it did not appear overly serious, which the elf confirmed after holding the area under the cold mountain water that poured from the open faucet. While it could certainly benefit from a few stitches, Legolas was hardly going to expose himself to the healers, and his trembling right hand, still numb from the cold, lacked the dexterity for him to perform the task himself. Instead, Legolas retrieved the rudimentary healing supplies that he kept among his belongings, and simply bound the wound as best he could. His adrenaline was wearing off fast now, and he could hardly stand as he tightened the bandages and stripped off the remainder of his wet clothes. Tasks complete, the elf pulled on his sleepwear and all but fell into bed, the fingers of his right hand wrapped a little too tightly around his bandaged forearm.

Legolas did not stir until well into the next day, when soft knocking at the door roused him from his exhausted slumber.

“Prince Legolas?”  _ Laegon. _ “May I come in?”

“Just a moment.” Legolas sighed and rolled over in bed before forcing himself to stand, wincing as his back and ribs protested. An unfamiliar pain flared in his forearm, and the elf sucked in his breath as last night’s events came back to him, accompanied by a sense of bitter disappointment. He had failed again: instead of avenging his fallen friends, he had turned his back on them. No doubt they looked down upon him with disgust from the Halls of Mandos even now. Legolas’s hand closed around his most recent wound at this thought, for he deserved the pain. Quickly, he kicked the pile of damp clothing under his wardrobe, to be dealt with later, and, after making sure that his sleeve was pulled down to hide his arm, Legolas opened the door to greet the healer.

“Good morning, Laegon.” Legolas ran a hand through his hair and hoped that his smile reached his eyes.

“Prince Legolas.” The tawny-haired elf bowed slightly. “I apologise if I woke you. May I come in?”

“Of course.” The prince tried for his characteristic humour as he moved aside for the healer to enter the room, hoping that it would hide the turmoil currently waging a war in his mind. “I was rather beginning to miss being poked and prodded.” Laegon, for his part, seemed to accept this and gave a wry smile as he pulled up a chair beside the bed and opened his bag. Legolas watched him laying out his supplies, fidgeting nervously with his arm as he did so. There was something he needed to ask the healer, but he almost could not bring himself to do it. He feared the answer he would get. But he had to. He had to know.

“How does Elenath fare this day?” The words were out, and Laegon startled slightly at what was obviously an unexpected question. Just before the healer managed to compose himself, Legolas saw a bleakness in the elder elf’s green eyes.

“He has not woken since yesterday, my prince. I will not lie to you: it does not look good. However, for now, he is stable, and so we must not abandon hope.” Legolas nodded mutely. He didn’t think this would ever get easier to hear.

“Can I see him? And what of those that did this to him – to us?” Since he had failed in his own mission, Legolas could only hope that one of the patrol units more experienced and more hale than himself would soon lay waste to the vile creatures in his stead.

“I am sorry, my prince. There has, to my knowledge, been no word from the scouts this morning. And yes, you may see him after lunch, for which King Thranduil requests that you join him.”

“Now?” Legolas tried to keep his tone neutral, when really, just the thought of holding a conversation with his father was overwhelming, and he wished instead to climb into bed and sleep until none of this was real anymore. But it was real – he could feel it in the throbbing of his arm. His world had been completely and irreparably shattered, and even his once-dear forest thirsted for his blood.

“Yes, now. As soon as I have tended to your injuries.” 

“I understand.” Legolas sat down in defeat on the bedside and indicated to Laegon that he may begin.

“Let us see that chest wound first, then.” Legolas felt a surge of panic well up within him at the implication that he should remove his shirt, but then he nodded and unbuttoned the garment’s front so that the fabric fell loosely around his shoulders and exposed his chest while leaving the evidence of the previous night hidden. “Do your ribs pain you excessively?” Laegon immediately asked, and Legolas very nearly let out a sigh of relief as not only had the healer not questioned his actions, but the older elf had even attributed a perfectly rational explanation to them. A brief sensation of guilt passed over the prince then, for how he was actively deceiving the healer, who wished only to help. The feeling was, however, stolen by a growl of pain and a sharp series of coughs as the removal of the dressings over the arrow wound jarred his broken ribs. Laegon exclaimed a profuse apology and pushed a vial of pain relief at Legolas, but the young archer shook his head and instead set it down on the nightstand as he caught his breath.

“It is alright, Laegon. I am fine. Continue.” He took a deep breath and set his jaw as the healer resumed his ministrations. The arrow wound was healing well, it was decided, and the stitches would be out within a week. Of course, the healer just had to move onto his back after that, which completely dampened any sense of optimism that the news over his chest wound might have created. Every muscle in his back twitched and spasmed under the other elf’s touch, leaving Legolas almost reaching for the pain remedy in desperation as he dug his nails into the bedclothes. He deserved the pain though, and so he bore the suffering until at last, Laegon lowered his shirt and packed away his supplies. He said nothing all the while, but Legolas could read the healer well enough to know that there was no need – the older elf was far from happy with his findings. For now, though, Legolas just sat on the side of the bed, shoulders heaving and soaked with sweat as he waited for the pain in his back to subside, all the while trying not to set off his ribs with each breath. Once the cramping muscles had faded to a dull ache, the prince looked up to find Laegon staring at him, clearly waiting to speak. 

“Prince Legolas, it is almost time for lunch. The walk may even ease your back pain. Do you require my aid in dressing? I understand that your ribs – ”

“No. Thank you Laegon, but I will manage on my own.” Legolas gave the healer a tight smile, and Laegon nodded and headed for the door. “Then I shall wait outside for you. Simply call for me should you have need of anything.” Laegon stepped out into the passage with a bow and closed the door, leaving the young archer alone once more.

Legolas allowed himself a frustrated groan as he dragged a hand over his face. He hurt all over and did not relish the prospect of dressing, but he could not accept Laegon’s help since his body bore the fresh evidence of the night’s activities. He would need to care for the wound well, he knew, for if he wished it to remain secret, then he would need to ensure that its healing should be swift and unhindered. Thinking about this made his hand creep over the dressings once more, squeezing until tendrils of pain drove sharp thorns deep into his flesh. This cleared his mind, and he released his arm and moved to the bathing chamber, where he stripped off his shirt, gritting his teeth against his throbbing ribs. Once he stood bare chested and panting, Legolas turned his attention to his forearm and carefully unwrapped the bandages. The cut had bled a little overnight, though not alarmingly so, and once the wrappings came away, the elf realised that the wound was once again oozing fresh blood: no doubt due to his own aggravation of the injury. Deciding to leave the area uncovered while he sponged his body, Legolas pulled off his leggings and proceeded to clean himself as best he could, not for the first time wishing that he could make use of the bathtub. Sitting on the side of the tub made the process easier on his abused body, and once it was complete, the archer washed and bandaged his arm, taking care to make the bandages as flat and unobtrusive as possible. He didn’t want them creating lumps in his clothing and attracting undue attention. After wrapping a towel around his waist, Legolas came to stand in front of his wardrobe. He needed to look presentable, but at the same time, he also needed attire that was easy to get on. After some deliberation, the elf selected a soft cotton tunic and a pair of leggings that he hoped would fit his requirements, and laid out a slightly more formal robe to wear on top. Struggling into the garments proved trying after the energy he had expended during the night, but at last it was done, and Legolas collapsed into an armchair to rest for a moment and slip on his boots.

There was still the matter of his hair, though. Settling for pulling a comb through it until most of the tangles had smoothed, he left the flaxen gold tresses flowing loose over his chest and back. Then, with a small squeeze of his arm, Legolas took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow, set his face to neutral, and opened the bedroom door.

Legolas managed to fake it all through breakfast. He didn’t crumble into broken sobs when Thranduil embraced him. He exchanged pleasantries and assured his father that he was healing well. He even managed to eat some of the fruit that he pushed around his plate, though it turned to ashes in his mouth. Thranduil did not pry into the issue of his son’s memories, and the prince was glad for it. Under the table, his fingers curled around the cut in his forearm. The pain would get him through this until he could leave. The pain gave him strength.

Breakfast ended abruptly when the Elvenking was summoned for urgent court business. Thranduil stood from the table and embraced his son, ever conscious of the prince’s injuries, and when he stepped back, his eyes locked with Legolas’s, both concerned and apologetic at once. The blue orbs held an unspoken sincerity, as though they meant to look upon the prince’s very soul. 

“I am alright, Ada,” Legolas whispered, gently brushing his fingertips over his father’s cheek, and did his best at a reassuring smile. He just hoped that the older elf bought his words. Someone needed to believe them, for Legolas was not sure that he believed them himself. Fortunately, Thranduil nodded, and his shoulders relaxed.

“I will see you soon, Penneth. Listen to Laegon and do not push yourself too hard.” With a last glance at his son, Thranduil turned and strode from the room as his countenance changed at once from that of a worried parent to a proud king, ready to take on the responsibilities of his realm. Legolas took a moment to watch him go, and then breathed out in an audible sigh once he was alone. It did nothing to ease the guilt of deceiving his father, and his fingers worried at the dressings on his forearm before remembering that he was now free to see Elenath.

It did not take Legolas long to reach the chambers of his friend, and once he stood before the entrance, he experimentally tried the handle but found the door locked. Part of him had hoped to slip in undetected and visit alone at the Silvan’s bedside, and so he felt a twinge of disappointment as he raised his hand to knock. Now, he could only hope that at least one of the healers would be present in the room to let him in, else he would have to expend precious energy in finding them in the vastness of the stronghold. Before his knuckles reached the wood though, the door opened enough to reveal Laegon’s face. The elder healer pressed a finger to his lips and quickly beckoned for Legolas to enter. The young prince stepped over the threshold, frowning as he looked questioningly at Laegon. By way of answer, the healer inclined his head towards the bed, a knowing smile playing across his features. When he spoke, his voice was a barely audible whisper.

“Elenath sleeps. You may go to him, but try not to wake him.”

“Sleeps?” Legolas hissed, his gaze settling on the mound below the bedclothes. “But you said…” The prince’s confusion only made the healer smile further.

“He rose from unconsciousness not half an hour ago. He was not long awake and fell asleep after taking his medicine.” Laegon took a glance at the bed. “And as of moments ago, I can assure you, my prince, that his consciousness remains present. Come, I will show you.” 

Heart thudding in his chest, Legolas dared to follow the older elf across the room. 

“Can he see – ” The elf’s question died on his lips as a loud whimper sounded from the bed, and the sleeper stirred within. A strained voice carried to their ears, and both Legolas and Laegon covered the remaining distance to the bed as though a pack of wargs were on their heels, the prince biting back a growl as his back protested the sudden movement.

“Who’s there?” The voice was thin and ragged as though it had endured much abuse, but it was unmistakeably that of Elenath. Laegon was the first to reach the Silvan, much to Legolas’s frustration, but he knew it was for the best as the healer placed a comforting palm upon the young warrior’s chest, causing Elenath’s restless movements to still.

“It is me, Laegon. Prince Legolas has come to visit you. Are you in need of anything?” Elenath let out a noncommittal hum at the question, as if trying to assess his body in order to decide on the answer.

“Las?” Foregoing a response to the healer, Elenath strained to turn his head towards the elves at his bedside, and as the blue eyes roved between them, Legolas dared to hope. 

“I’m here, Nath.” And then his hopes were cruelly dashed as the Silvan raised his good arm towards Legolas and completely missed the prince, instead pawing at empty space until Legolas cupped the hand in his own and lowered it to rest on his knee, softly intertwining their fingers as he squeezed gently. He took the opportunity to send an alarmed look at Laegon.  _ He remains blind! _ The healer nodded sagely at him, his expression clearly sympathetic, though he followed the gesture with a cautionary shake of his head, indicating that Legolas should not speak of such things around the Silvan. The prince’s brows knit for a moment, though he quickly realised the sense in Laegon’s decision, since to speak freely would likely serve only to upset his friend, and upset was not something that Elenath should be subjected to in the fragility of his current condition. Instead of saying anything, Legolas merely rubbed circles into the back of the raven-haired Silvan’s hand with his thumb, and then ran his other hand up his friend’s uninjured arm until his palm came to rest lightly on the shoulder. Elenath made a contented sound at the contact, and some of the pain lines on his face smoothed.

Seeing his friend this way made Legolas’s stomach turn: it had been his own actions that had put the loyal Silvan warrior into this state. As he swallowed uneasily against a wave of nausea, the young archer was struck by the urge to sink his fingertips deep into the cut in his forearm; to rend the wound open and bleeding in a sweet symphony of pain. He could not stand his own healing, not whilst Elenath lay quiet and barely conscious in his bed, his precious elven sight stolen from him and his very fate in the hands of the Valar. Not whilst the bodies of his friends lay in the frozen ground of the palace cemetery, their restless souls pacing the Halls of Mandos. Radhron. Traston. Radriel. And Caladwen. Legolas’s hand rose subconsciously from its position over Elenath’s, and he choked back a gag as his stomach rolled. He saw Laegon’s eyes on him though, and quickly exhaled a long breath through his nose as he redirected his hand to rub at his eyes rather than at his forearm. The green eyes lingered on him a moment, and Legolas fought to suppress a shudder before the healer’s attention returned to the Silvan. It would not at all do for Laegon –  _ or anyone _ – to discover either the wound or Legolas’s compulsion to deliberately aggravate it. For then he would need to tell them the truth of what had really happened in the forest with the others, and he could not. The looks of disappointment and disgust on the faces of those close to him, and indeed every elf in the kingdom, would be too much to bear. And he would deserve it. He deserved all of it for what he had done. He was a worthless coward, but still he could not tell them. Not now. Not yet. Self-loathing clawed at his chest, but Legolas focused on returning his hand to its former position, keeping it well clear of his forearm. As his skin contacted Elenath’s, the prince was surprised when Elenath took his hand in a grip that was surprisingly firm. 

“Thank you, Las.” The softly murmured words had the young prince perplexed. “Laegon told me. You saved my life.” Legolas looked to the healer in horror at this, wondering just how much his friend had been told, but Laegon shook his head emphatically. It was probable then, that the Silvan remained unaware of the fates that had befallen the others. As if to prove Legolas’s conclusion, Elenath sighed lightly and his hold on the prince’s hand relaxed as the Silvan gave himself over to sleep.

Legolas and Laegon watched over the sleeping form for a time in silence, until the healer stood up and motioned for the prince to follow. Stopping once they had reached a small alcove in the stone, Laegon explained that Elenath had no memories of anything that had happened to him, or even the events leading up to his head injury, and so had been told simply that he had had an accident while on a routine patrol, and that it had been Legolas who had carried him to safety. The healers had decided that in order to keep the Silvan calm and afford him the best chance of healing from his ordeal, no further information than was strictly necessary would be disclosed to the swordsman unless he began to regain memories of the patrol, or reached a stable enough point in his recovery where his body would safely handle the distress that the deaths of his fellow kinsmen would surely bring. Physically, it was encouraging that Elenath was conscious and able to communicate, but it was still too early to say whether he would pull through, and if so when, or even if, his sight would return. The next week or two, Laegon estimated, would be telling as far as the Silvan’s prognosis was concerned. It was possible that Elenath’s loss of vision was caused by swelling within the elf’s brain, in which case his senses might be restored to him as the inflammation subsided, but again, it was impossible to be certain of anything at this point.

Legolas listened to the healer with clenched teeth. That he was the hero in Laegon and Elenath’s eyes was utterly abhorrent to him – in reality, he was the opposite, and that made him want to scream out the truth to anyone who would listen. The healers were heroes. Elenath’s white horse was a hero. But  _ him _ ? How could he ever be worthy of his friend’s gratitude? Of Laegon’s version of events? For without Legolas’s own folly, the Silvan would be safe and whole, probably telling jokes on the training field at this very moment. It should be him – Legolas – in that bed, not Elenath. It should never have been Elenath. And that the Silvan’s recovery still rested in the hands of fate robbed him of any energy that he still possessed. Once Laegon had finished speaking, Legolas excused himself to his room, where he crawled into bed and relinquished his hold on consciousness without even removing his boots.

The next few days passed in a haze of exhausted repetition and anguish. On awakening from what had become increasingly restless nights of sleep, Legolas’s day would begin with Laegon examining him and carefully evaluating the prince’s healing. From there, Legolas would take breakfast with his father, or, if the Elvenking’s time had instead been occupied with court matters, the young elf would eat alone in his chambers. He preferred taking his meals alone, as this way he was not forced to eat in order to maintain the façade of serenity that had become a permanent part of his appearance when around others, shrouding his pain – both of body and mind – from those who would pity, or worse, worry for him. He was undeserving of their compassion. After breakfast, Legolas would head straight to Elenath’s quarters, where he would spend hours at the bedside of his friend. Sometimes, he would read quietly to the Silvan, and other times he would simply sit in quiet melancholy. Mostly, the raven-haired warrior would be unconscious or deeply asleep, and on the rare occasions when Elenath was awake, he would be taken by relentless pain and sickness, and seizures that would wound Legolas to his core as he held desperately onto his friend’s trembling hand through it all. Lunch and supper would, like breakfast, either be spent with Thranduil or alone, and every hour in-between would find Legolas once again in Elenath’s chambers. He would retire late into the night and crawl exhausted into his own bed, where his sleep was broken by nightmares and pain. And then as soon as he woke, the routine would start all over again. Often, the agony in his heart would grow too much to bear, and he would close his fingers tightly around his forearm (which he had managed to keep secret from Laegon), digging his fingers in until the very real, physical pain there would calm his racing heart and grant him the strength to continue. Until the day that it did not. And on that day, in the middle of a sunny winter afternoon, Legolas found himself curled up and shaking on his bedroom floor, the door locked tightly behind him and a piece of broken glass pressed to the exposed skin of his wrist.


End file.
